


A Document In Madness

by allofmyheart



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8341039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofmyheart/pseuds/allofmyheart
Summary: "My mother was a country woman". Why does Ophelia's madness take the form it does?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meatball42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/gifts).



> This was written for the Stage Of Fools challenge, on a prompt from Meatball42. I was given a selection of plays and prompts to choose from, and the one I chose to go with was this for Hamlet: "literally anything where Ophelia gets to have motivations rooted in her own life, rather than just reacting to Hamlet's actions." That set me thinking about why it might be that Ophelia's madness takes the form it does, and the idea for this fic arrived pretty much fully-formed. I don't really know whether to say whether it's prequel, missing scene, drabble or what, but I hope it makes sense and above all I hope it pleases my recipient.

My mother was a country woman. She was born on a farm, and used to say she’d spent more of her childhood outdoors than in. It gave her much more than mere affection for the countryside: she had a bone-deep sympathy with the land and what it produced. She was in tune with the rhythm of the seasons, with the spring leaves and the young lambs bleating, the harvest rituals and the birds skeining across the sky. She knew all the customs of the country people, their sayings and proverbs, how to read the weather, how to celebrate Maying and wassail. She grew up with the country, and it was part of her. 

When my father brought her here to the castle, she missed the country more than she ever said. The people at court knew nothing of country ways. Their customs, their manners and conversation were far removed from her world. She loved my father, and for his sake she did her best to belong, but she never really did. At any opportunity she would slip out of the castle gates and down to the fields below. She loved to feel the sunshine and the breeze on her face, to breathe the scents of the earth and run her fingers through the ripening barley. The other women at court thought she was strange, and laughed at her for dirtying her stockings in the mud and preferring the company of the gleaning girls to the latest court gossip; but she didn’t care. No matter what the weather, she would be out there, in the elements, part of them. And as soon as Laertes and I were old enough, she would take us with her. 

It was my mother who taught me about the flowers. She knew all of them: the wild flowers that grow in the fields and hedgerows and on the banks of the stream, and the plants and herbs in the kitchen garden too. She told me their names, the old country people’s names for them, when they flowered and where to find them. She told me which ones were good for the fever or a headache, which would clean your table or scent your linen, and which ones we put into our meat or our broth to make them taste good. And, of course, she told me which ones were deadly poison and would make you sick, or give you fits, or just numb their way through your veins and sinews until you went to sleep and never woke up. 

It wasn’t just the practical things she knew, though. She told me how flowers had a language and a symbolism, how each one had a special meaning: rosemary for remembrance, pansies for thoughts. Violets for fidelity and daisies for love. She tried to teach Laertes too but he wasn’t interested – he would rather be fishing in the stream, or climbing the trees, or pretending to fence and joust like a knight. So it was special, just me and her. We would laugh and make up stories about what the flowers meant as we picked bunches in the meadow – just the two of us, and then we would bring them home and show them to Father and put them in a jug on the table. Or she would show me how to twist the willow branches into a crown and weave flowers in and out of them, and we would wear them on our heads and pretend to be queens and princesses, and laugh some more, and sing.

My mother was always singing. She sang while we walked through the woods and fields, and while she sat and sewed or spun. She sang the songs she had learned in her youth – lovers’ ballads, sad laments, songs of loss and betrayal. So many of them were sad, and yet her singing always sounded happy. I think it reminded her of home. And I learned the songs and I would sing with her, and my father would listen and smile, and I think that was the happiest we ever were.

I was nine when my mother died. She was expecting another baby, but something went wrong and my little sister was born dead. Then my mother got a fever, and a week later, she died too. I remember standing by the grave in the little churchyard, not really understanding what was going on. I knew that she wasn’t coming back, but I couldn’t quite believe it. She looked so peaceful lying in the coffin, just as though she was asleep, and I remember being glad that the graveyard was outside the castle and she would be able to hear the birds calling, and smell the dogroses. I remember my father standing there with tears streaming down his cheeks, and Laertes, twelve years old, pale and solemn, trying to be brave. That was the first and only time I ever saw my father cry, and it was so shocking, I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there and prayed that he would stop. Then we all went back inside, and my father never mentioned my mother again.

I suppose that was how he coped with losing her – by shutting it away, boxing everything up and pretending it had never happened. The only time I saw it was a few weeks after she died, when I got out my sewing one evening and I started singing one of the songs Mama had sung when she sewed. The look on his face was so shocking it scared me – I thought he was going to start crying again, and so I stopped singing and jumped up and left the room. I never sang for him again until years later, and then it was different songs, courtly songs, ones that the King and Queen liked. But I remembered the songs my mother taught me, and I would sing them to myself, alone at night, to comfort myself as I tried to go to sleep. 

I never brought flowers home again either, but sometimes I would go down to the meadow and pick a posy, and leave it on my mother’s grave. Laertes would come with me, then, and we would talk about her together. We talked a lot, in those years after Mama died. We would tell each other everything, at least for a while, until Laertes decided he was far too grown-up and manly to confide in his little sister. But he was still the closest friend I had. As for Father, he buried himself in the life of the court – in making himself indispensible to the King – and I think after a while he could forget about my mother for most of the time. I suppose that was what he wanted.

I didn’t have much to do with Hamlet, growing up. He was so much older than me, and he seemed so remote, so glamorous, the special boy at court. He was always kind to me when we met, but I don’t imagine he gave me much thought. He was the Prince, everything revolved around him, and he had tutors and riding lessons and special clothes and sat with his mother and father to eat at the High Table. Not that he was stuck-up or self-important in any way, but that’s just how it was: that was his life, and nobody questioned it, and I was just a quiet little courtier’s daughter. Then he went away to university, and that was that. 

I suppose I was flattered, then, when he started paying me attention. It had never occurred to me that he might. It started on one of his regular visits home; he must have been bored and wanted someone to talk to, and I happened to be around. I think we were both surprised at how well we got on. Then, when his father died, he came home again, and that’s when things really started. I suppose I could understand, partly, having known what it’s like to lose a parent; and when I said how tough it was, suddenly he was all over me like a rash. And he was sweet, and tender, and said such things to me... I’d never known anything like that before. I didn’t know what to think – but he seemed so real, so raw, I couldn’t help but believe him.

Of course, my father and my brother warned me; they said that he was trifling with me, that he would use me and move on. I nodded and agreed like a dutiful little girl, but I didn’t believe them. I thought I knew better. Ha! Me! A girl of seventeen, who’s lived her whole life locked away in a castle! How could I know about anything? Because now he doesn’t seem like himself at all. All those things he said to me – so crude, so vile – I don’t understand how he could be like that. They say he’s mad – I suppose he is – how else could he say those things? It makes me feel sick, to think of them – sick and used. Perhaps my father and my brother were right all along. It’s like the songs my mother taught me: what seems like love ends in deceit and betrayal. All those songs of heartbreak, so appropriate. 

***********

Oh God! – Can it be true? – My father dead? And killed by Hamlet? That can’t be right – They keep telling me, but I can’t believe it. Oh God! - what’s happening? I feel as though I’m losing my mind. Father – and Hamlet – no – horrible – I can’t think straight – I can’t breathe – Father! How could you leave me alone? No Father and no Mama – oh, Mama! How I miss you! I never stopped missing you... all those nights alone in the dark, singing your songs to myself... singing... Yes! Thats’ what I’ll do! I’ll sing your songs again – that always helped – I’ll sing. Poor Father can’t hear me now, to be upset – I’ll sing ‘Sweet Robin’, for Mama – that’s better – yes. Ah yes! I can breathe again now. I can hear Mama, singing with me. Sing with me, Mama. Let’s go. Let’s sing to the Queen...

The Queen didn’t want to join in my songs. She didn’t know them, Mama - she didn’t know them like you. She wouldn’t sing – she just looked sad – the King too. I don’t blame them. I’m sad. I’ll always be sad. So sad... meadow saffron, that’s for sadness. And harebells for grief. That’s what Mama taught me... Ah! I must gather flowers – flowers for everyone – bunches of them – I’ll do it now – I’ll go down to the meadow...

I gave them the flowers but they didn’t understand. Not even Laertes. He just looked sad too... I gave him rosemary, but he didn’t remember. I’ll always remember... I’ll remember, Mama – and Father... I’ll put flowers on your graves. Flowers to remember you. Always, flowers…

***********

I didn’t intend to fall in the river. I just went down there to pick flowers, to make garlands like Mama and I used to do. I found all the right ones – the crowflowers and the daisies – and I wove them into the willow crowns, just like we always did. I made three crowns – one for me, one for Mama, and one for my baby sister. And I went to hang them on the willow tree, like we sometimes would – and my foot slipped, and down I went, into the stream. But do you know what? It doesn’t feel cold. It doesn’t feel anything except smooth and calm. So calm – I can’t remember when I last felt like this. I could just float and float on the stream, so peaceful... I think it will carry me to my mother. To Mama…I want to go to her. To be in her arms again. I’ll let the stream take me. Yes. Taking me away, away... I can hear my mother singing now. Singing the old songs from her youth... I’m coming, Mama! I’m coming to you... I’m singing… so calm... so happy... I’ll be with you always now, Mama… and Father too. Always together. Singing with you for ever. Yes.


End file.
